The Hunt
by Splintered Star
Summary: Erik has used a variety of methods to get information, over the years. Erik/OMC briefly, murder, Holocaust references, Nazis. Xmfc, premovie.


(X-Men First Class is not mine. Random Nazi is, I suppose. Holocaust references, Erik/OMC (briefly) extortion, murder, all the lovely things one expects with Erik on the hunt. Also, bits of what I can remember from high school German. )

The smoke makes him want to cough, reminds him of the camps. Instead Erik smiles and takes a seat at the bar. This isn't his kind of bar, isn't his kind of company – not that he keeps any – but supposedly there's a lead here. Schmidt has friends in all sorts of unsavory corners.

Erik has a name in his head and a drink in his hand, sleeves covering his tattoo. Even in a bar full of men, some younger and more eager than he, he knows eyes are lingering on him.

"You new here, boy?" A man nearby asks, leering, and Erik wants to rip out the man's eyes. Instead he shrugs and makes his smirk turn smoldering.

"Yeah. Looking for a man named Jakobs." Alwin Jakobs, Nazi captain. Rumored to have helped Schmidt get in contact with banks that will take Nazi gold. There's a network, he's heard, of the old officers. He'll have to track them down, one by one. "You know him?"

The main raises his eyebrow. "Yeah, he's in the corner." He jerks his head that direction. "Why'd you need him?" The man takes another look, suspicious rather than lusting, eyes lingering on the sharp features of Erik's face.

Erik shrugs, easy and casual. "Ich think," he says, letting his accent show, "We've got friends in common."

Something in the man's expression darkens, and he snorts, walking away without another word. All men of German decent are suspect, these days, even if they're too young to have been proper Nazi soldiers. The assumption doesn't even make Erik's teeth clench like it used to (he punched the first man to accuse him of it, snarling to cover the tears in his eyes) because it gives him leads, gives him contacts, gives him an in with aging soldiers looking for former compatriots.

If he feels any shame, he makes sure to pay for it in blood.

Erik raises his drink at the man's back and slinks towards the indicated corner. Men's eyes linger on him, either in lust or disgust. Erik doesn't favor these places, himself, having no interest in the intimate company of other men – but then again, it has been some years since he's enjoyed the company of women either. People are targets or sources, nothing else.

Jakobs has a scar from the war across his face and a leer buried in his eyes. Erik approaches him, making his smirk turn hot, longing. "Guten nacht," Erik purrs, setting his drink on the table and sliding into the seat across from Jakobs, "I hear we've got friends in common."

Alcohol reddened eyes drag over Erik's lean frame, his lips and his eyes. "Do we?" He leans forward on his elbows. "I have so few friends these days. Fewer still from the fatherland."

Erik smiles back. "Jah." He knocks back the drink easily. "Kannst du Herr Schmidt?" His tone is casual and easy as he switches back and forth between languages. "I borrowed something from him, during the war. Want to return it." The coin flips over in his pocket.

Jakobs' bloodshot eyes narrow, but his smile doesn't. "Herr Schmidt is a popular man. I'm certain he bears you no ill will for not repaying your dues."

Erik bites his cheek behind his smile. "Mein freund, I do not like owing people. Especially such an illustrious man."

Jakobs' eyes linger on Erik's mouth. "You don't like owing people, eh? What would you pay me if I tell you?"

Erik licks his lip, deliberately. "What do you think would be a fair price?"

Jakobs' smile is everything. He stands, whispering, "Funf minuten," and walks from the bar. Erik waits, tapping the seconds out on the table and ignoring the stares of the men. Five minutes he spends planning and calming himself, sketching out potential next moves in the dust and grime of the table. Then he stands himself, and walks from the bar without looking back.

The alley next to the bar is grimy and dark and barely private, but it's private enough and scrap metal lines the walls and ground, dirty and abandoned and *his*. He grabs it with half a gesture, and asks, "You'll tell me?"

The answering smirk is slimy and leering. "After."

"Of course." Erik smiles like a whore as he slides to his knees, and like all whore's smiles it doesn't reach his eyes. He holds the man's gaze until it's over, until he swallows the foul seed down and is on his feet again in a moment. "You promised, freund." He tries to keep his tone casual, even as metal slides closer silently. "Herr Schmidt. Where is he?"

Bleary, half-closed, and reddened eyes glance at him. "Why bother, boy?" Jakobs smirks, swinging an arm around Erik's shoulder and narrowly avoiding having it broken. "I'm sure you can pay your debts to me, and he will consider it even…"

Erik's smile turns feral, but the man is too drunk and blissed out to notice. "You promised. Schmidt. *Where is he*?"

Jakobs shrugs. "Sweden. He was planning on hiding his spoils there. One of the banks, didn't say which. He left in October." It's enough. Erik can get there in three days. "How long will you be in town, boy?" Jakobs' smile is an attempt at smoldering but instead is lecherous.

Erik smiles back, stepping out of the man's arm, and there is nothing friendly in his expression at all. "I've been here long enough." There's a knife floating beside his head in an instant, and Jakobs doesn't even have time to scream.

He turns away from the twitching corpse, and kneels on the dirty ground. He presses a finger into the back of his throat and vomits up alcohol and semen. As he straightens again, he smiles.

(AN: Because there's something darkly appealing about Erik being all... predatory. And the mental image of him fucking for information refused to get out of my head.)


End file.
